A Choice You Have to Make (Pansy Parkinson's Guide to Getting Revenge
by Leigh Adams15
Summary: No one jilts a Parkinson


**Title:** A Choice You Have to Make (Pansy Parkinson's Guide to Getting Revenge on that Cheating Bastard)  
**Author:** Leigh, aka leigh_adams  
**Characters:** Draco Malfoy/Pansy Parkinson, Ron Weasley/Pansy Parkinson  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Word Count:** 2,987  
**Summary:** No one jilts a Parkinson.  
**Author's Notes:** Written for the inaugural round at fortheloveofhp on LiveJournal. The prompt - Mama's Broken Heart by Miranda Lambert - was like catnip. I couldn't resist. Thanks to shy_of_reality for her patience, and hugs and kisses to my beta, fiery_flamingo!

**A Choice You Have to Make (Pansy Parkinson's Guide to Getting Revenge on that Cheating Bastard)**

Interrogation Room Seven had seen thousands of criminals pass through the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Male, female, short, tall, fat, thin - it made no difference in the eyes of the law. _"Seek the truth. Punish the guilty. Protect the realm."_ Those words were engraved above each and every interrogation room door. It was the favorite quote of Justus Pilliwickle, former Department head and pompous windbag supreme.

In Pansy Parkinson's unbiased opinion, it was a load of tripe.

Yet, Interrogation Room Seven had never before seen such an odd assortment of characters gathered at the same time. There was an elderly man with a pair of spectacles perched atop the end of his crooked nose, the smell of mothballs clung to his dated suit. In contrast, the woman sitting next to him could have walked off the runways of Milan. Her navy dress robes were perfectly tailored, and her dark brown hair was swept up in an elegant coif. (If there were strands of gray in there, they had been painstakingly magicked away). Despite her refined air, however, she wore a pained expression.

That likely had something to do with the room's third occupant.

Pansy was nearly unrecognizable. Her straight black bangs looked as if someone had taken a pair of rusty kitchen scissors to them. What makeup she'd worn at the beginning of the evening had long since smudged, making her appearance akin to that of a disheveled circus performer. To top it all off, there was a distinct smell of kerosene clinging to her wrinkled black dress.

All in all, Pansy Parkinson had seen better days.

"This," the elder of the two women said, breaking the room's terse silence, "would never have happened if your father were here."

"And that is where you're wrong, Mother." Pansy cut a quick glare at Delphine Parkinson. "This entire situation is his fault."

Her mother gave a quick bark of laughter that was hardly laughter at all. "And how is this his fault, Pansy? What in Merlin's name has he done that you would do such... such things?"

"Father," she spit out the title as if it left a bad taste on her tongue, "is the one who arranged this entire sham of a marriage to begin with."

"A sham of a marriage _you_ were all too happy to go through with."

"When I was sixteen!"

Delphine ignored her. It was a habit she'd always had, yet it had grown much more pronounced in the past eighteen months. "Your father is away, as you're well aware of."

Pansy rolled her eyes. "Oh Mother, when are you going to stop acting as if he's on holiday somewhere?"

It was as if she hadn't even asked the question. "You are a Parkinson and a Mulciber. Witches like us do not engage in actions. They do not behave the way you have this evening. If Draco wished to keep a mistress -"

"The way Father did?"

"- then it is his prerogative to do so. It is your _duty_ to keep your lips shut and stay faithful to your fiancé."

"Mmmm, yes, see, this is where you and I differ, Mother." Pansy ignored the subtle cough from the man sitting between the two Parkinson women. "I don't let men turn me into the laughing stock of wizarding England."

Delphine sniffed and looked down her nose at her daughter. "No, you draw attention to yourself like a Mudblood. You disappoint me, Pansy."

Red clouded her vision. Her hand went to her wand holster - empty; confiscated when she'd been arrested and hauled into the Ministry like a common criminal.

The door swung open and pulled Pansy's death glare from her mother to the man who'd just walked in, a file in his hands. The sight of crimson robes made her pause, turning her focus from giving her mother a piece of her mind to the unexpected conundrum that had just walked in.

Crimson robes. Not the black ones worn by typical Magical Law Enforcement officers. Crimson robes.

Only Aurors wore crimson robes.

Said Auror cleared his throat. "Parkinson."

She narrowed her eyes. "Weasley." Her eyes travelled the length of his uniform, not bothering to hide the disdain in her gaze _or_ in her tone. "To what do I owe the displeasure of an _Auror's_ company?"

He coughed, but it didn't hide the red that flooded his cheeks. "Due to your family's... present circumstances, the Department felt it was prudent to have an Auror handle the questioning instead of the arresting officer."

"Oh for fuck's sake!" Pansy glared at the offending Weasley, blue eyes narrow. "Present circumstances? Just bloody say it, Weasley. My father is serving seven life sentences in Azkaban," she ignored her mother's sharp inhalation, "for war crimes including, but not limited to, torture, coercion, and murder. There." She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. "Does that cover it?"

"_Pansy!_" Delphine hissed. "Language!"

The Weasley cleared his throat. "Mrs. Parkinson, I'm going to have to ask you to step outside while I ask your daughter a few questions."

_Thank Merlin_, Pansy thought as her mother stood and gathered her Hermes handbag. "Gladly. I do not envy you your task, Auror Weasley." Giving her daughter one last eagle-eyed look, she swept out of the room in a flurry of robes and Chanel perfume.

"Bigsby, go with her." She shot the nearly-forgotten elderly man a look. "She might need smelling salts."

"Miss... Miss Parkinson..." he croaked, blinking owlishly at her, "I would... I would advise against this. As your counsel..."

"Yes, your advice is already heeded," she drawled, rolling her eyes at the antique barrister who'd been on retainer since her father was a babe in arms. "Now get out."

It took forever - five minutes in reality, but Pansy had always leaned toward the dramatic - for the old man to gather his briefcase and shuffle out the door. When it shut behind him with a resounding 'thud,' Pansy finally lent her full attention to the Ministry official tasked with gathering her confession.

Ron Weasley. She hadn't seen him in person since the night of the battle at Hogwarts. He'd been in the papers since then, of course - stories of jilted fiancés were right up Rita Skeeter's alley, and Pansy had no doubt her own story would be front and center of the next issue of _Witch Weekly_. If she were being _entirely_ honest with herself, she would have admitted he looked... decent.

A coy smile pulled at her lips, and she leaned back in her chair. "So," she drawled, "alone at last."

"That wasn't a very smart move, Parkinson." The metallic feet of his chair scraped loudly on the linoleum floor as he pulled it out from beneath the table, settling his lanky frame into it before meeting her eyes. "Dismissing your barrister."

"And miss out on this private moment?" Her companion shot her a quick, annoyed look, and she shrugged. "Bigsby's useless. He's only here because Father put him on retainer before I was born, and he gets paid the same amount of gold no matter what happens to me."

Weasley flipped the file open and conjured a quill and inkpot. "So, you would like to waive your right to counsel?"

"A master of deductive reasoning, aren't you?" she replied snidely. "Yes, Weasley, I waive my right to counsel."

"You know, Parkinson, I'm just as thrilled about this as you are," he shot back. "I had more important things to do than question you about your little vandalism spree, like watch paint dry in my office."

"Sarcasm's no substitute for wit, Weasley." Pansy smirked and shifted in her seat, ignoring the way her movements shifted her little back dress slightly higher on her thighs. "But in your case, I suppose it's the best you can do."

Only the pursed lips gave any indication her words had hit a sore spot. The quill - one of the newer Quick Quote varieties, she assumed - scratched away, noting her words for the official record.

"At ten o'clock this evening, the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol received a call from a Darbus Catercule of 47 Martins Lane in Wiltshire. His complaint noted an inordinate amount of screeching coming from the vicinity of Malfoy Manor as well as the presence of smoke. Upon officer's arrival, you were found standing over the smoldering remains of the manor's exterior flora. After securing the suspect, officers performed _Finite incantatem_ on your wand and found the last spell cast was _Incendio_. Given sufficient evidence, you were arrested on charges of arson, vandalism, and disturbing the Queen's peace."

"That's quite a clinical way to put it, Weasley." In fact, when phrased that way, her activities of the past three hours sounded almost _boring_.

"Do you wish to deny the charges?"

She smiled a cat-like smile. "Not at all. My actions were entirely justifiable."

One ginger brow rose. The Auror leaned back and folded his arms across his chest, the quill paused mid-stroke as it waited on her next words. "Parkinson, what in Merlin's name justified setting fire to Narcissa Malfoy's prize rose bushes? The same roses, by the way, it's rumored the Queen's head gardener has been after for ten years."

"Fifteen, actually." Setting the roses aflame might have been taking things a _bit_ too far, but it was too late now. "And it's not like Narcissa has seen those roses since she _temporarily_ relocated to Majorca two years ago."

"Parkinson..."

"What?" she asked innocently, blue eyes wide.

He grit his teeth, and she could see the annoyance flare up in his look. "Answer the question."

She blinked. "Oh, you mean what provoked me to set fire to the roses?"

"Don't forget your little screaming fit, hence the 'disturbing the peace' charge." Weasley smirked at her across the table. "From what I hear, you weren't exactly screaming his name in passion."

"And you'd be the expert on what someone having an orgasm sounds like, wouldn't you? Tell me, do your bits eventually fall off from lack of use, or -"

"Answer. The. Bloody. Question."

Pansy sighed in fake regret. "_Fine_. Yesterday morning, I discovered my beloved fiance having a bit of how's your father with my former best friend."

The quill paused, as if unsure how to transcribe the unfamiliar slang. "When you say that," Weasley said for the quill's benefit, "you mean to say you discovered them... in coitus?"

She rolled her eyes. "Oh for Merlin's sake, they were fucking each other like rabbits, Weasley. Is that clear enough for you?"

Color flooded his cheeks, clashing horribly with his obnoxious red hair. "Um, yes, perfectly. Thank you, Parkinson." The parchment shuffled, and a fresh one rose to the top for the quill's continued scratching. "So, you discovered Malfoy and... which Greengrass?"

"Astoria."

"Right, Greengrass the younger having intimate relations yesterday morning. What did you do from that moment until the time you set the fires at Malfoy Manor?"

"I may or may not have indulged in a glass or two of wine. And when I say 'may or may not,' I mean I did, and when I say 'a glass or two,' I mean the entirety of my father's collection of 1987 Chateau Lafite."

He looked at her with a stunned expression. "I'm going to assume that factored into your new hairstyle?"

She shrugged with nonchalance. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

He eyed the jagged fringe across her forehead with distaste. "If you say so."

"If we're going to start trading fashion advice, let's start with that hair and robes combination." Pansy shuddered delicately. "_Dreadful._"

His eyes narrowed, which nearly made her laugh. If _that_ was his most fearsome expression, then the dark wizards of the United Kingdom had little to fear. He was about as menacing as a kitten. "Back to the confession at hand," he ground out through clenched teeth. "All this because Draco Malfoy shagged some piece -"

"My former best friend is that little side piece."

"- on the side? Why go through all the trouble? I thought you didn't really want to marry him." He coughed and tried to hide the blush that stained his cheeks - for a man of the law, he blushed like a twelve year old girl. "Or at least, that's what I heard."

Pansy _tsked_ him. "I see someone's been reading the gossip columns, Auror Weasley." He shot her a look but didn't respond. "I'll take your silence as a 'yes' to that, then. But on that front, the gossips were correct. I don't love Draco, and I didn't want to marry him. Not anymore, at least."

He stared at her. "Then why...?"

"_Why?_" she parroted incredulously. "_Why?_ Because _no one_ - most especially that git of a peroxide blonde - steps out on a Parkinson and gets away with it, scot clean."

"Why all this trouble, though? You could have just chucked the ring back at his face in public?"

Her posture stiffened momentarily, but then she relaxed and leaned back in her chair. A satisfied smile curled her lips. "Why, Weasley, I'd almost forgotten. _You're_ the expert on what to do when you're jilted by a fiance, aren't you? Tell me, how is Mrs. Krum? She's due any day now, right? Twins?"

"That has _nothing_ to do with this situation, Parkinson."

"It has _everything_ to do with it," she shot back. She leaned forward and crossed her arms on the table. She didn't miss the way his gaze flickered to her breasts, now pushed up on full display. "Tell me you never fantasized about getting revenge on Granger. The perfect couple, the darling of the papers. War heroes. A love story for the ages... until she left you for everyone's favorite Bulgarian bon bon."

His eye twitched. "So that's what this is about? Revenge?"

She held his gaze for a long moment. "Of course. Now answer the question."

"No." He said it in a flat tone, devoid of emotion. "I never did."

"Liar."

A rap on the smooth glass caught their attention, breaking the moment. "Excuse me," he said tersely, pushing back from the table and exiting the room.

Pansy didn't have long to enjoy the solitude before he was back, sliding into his chair and gathering his notes. "Mrs. Malfoy has, for whatever reason, decided not to press charges. You'll likely have to pay a fine for disturbing the peace, and I wouldn't recommend leaving the country before that's decided. Other than that, you're free to go."

She smiled at him and rose from her chair. "Excellent. I'd say it was a pleasure, Weasley, but I'm trying not to lie these days."

Her hand was on the doorknob when he said, "Yes."

"What?" She turned and gave him a questioning look, arching a manicured brow at him - though said brow was half-hidden behind her unevenly cut hair. "Yes what?"

"Yes, I wanted to get revenge on Hermione for what she did," he said quietly. She had to strain to hear him. "Revenge is a choice I didn't make. You did." He turned in his seat to look at her. "Which one of us is happier for it?"

For the first time, Pansy looked at him - _really_ looked, seeing him not just as a set of crimson robes or a head full of red hair, but as someone who'd been humiliated. Despite the freckles dotting his nose and the aforementioned clashing hair and robes, Ron Weasley was...

Damn it all, he was quite fit.

"It's not too late to make a different choice, you know." Her lips curled, her chin jerking higher in challenge. "What do you say, Weasley?"

He blinked owlishly at her. "What are you on about now, Parkinson?"

She sighed. He might have filled out nicely since school, but he was still thick as she remembered. "Listen, Weasley," she said, turning her back to the door and leaning against it, "I'm low on my philanthropy quota this month, so I'm going to help you out here. Do you still want revenge?"

"Yes."

She smiled. "Good. Tomorrow night, meet me at Le Gavroche. Seven p.m. sharp, reservations will be under my name. Wear something that doesn't clash horribly with your hair - a dark blue would be best, I think. Nothing that will look untoward in photographs." An amused expression lit her eyes. "I'd say an intimate dinner with one of her most hated school chums might be enough to set the perfect Mrs. Krum stewing, wouldn't you agree?"

He gaped at her. "Um, okay, yeah, I guess."

"And work on those conversational skills before tomorrow night, would you? I do so hate awkward silences."

"Only if you fix that disaster on top of your head."

The words should have enraged her, but they didn't. Perhaps the following evening wouldn't be a total bust after all. "Oh Weasley, I'm glad we bumped into one another. We should do it," her gaze flickered down, then back up, "again soon."

He stood and gathered his papers with a shake of his head. "This doesn't mean I like you, Parkinson."

"I don't like you either, Weasley." With a smirk, she opened the door and blew him a kiss over her shoulder. "Don't forget to bring flowers - red roses would be appropriate given the circumstances, I think. If you bring pansies..." Letting the threat hang in the hair, she closed the door on his dumbfounded expression and let loose with the laughter that had bubbled forth.

Things were looking up, indeed.


End file.
